Page 98 of Mending Hearts

“She’s reached out to a bunch of the other women and started a support group with her therapist.” Grady picked at the label on his beer bottle.

My heart expanded in response. I remembered when she’d come to my trailer after seeing the producer in Nashville, how confused and vulnerable she’d been. Look at her now—support groups, therapy, and lifting those other girls and women up to the surface so they could all take a deep, healing breath. I was so fuckingproudof her.

“You know,” Grady said. “Laura always made Mia seem like she was unstable. And in the industry, Mia had a reputation for being difficult. When she asked to work with me, people warned me off—said she was too much. I think it was Laura who was too much. Mia just let her run her life.”

“Mia’s not difficult,” I said with a shake of my head. “But I can’t imagine what would have happened to her if she’d stayed in that toxic partnership with her mother.”

We both sat in silence, drinking our beers. I glanced at the clock. Victoria probably wouldn’t wake up for another half an hour. Could I play the songs low and risk her angry scream, or should I wait until she was awake, but my attention was divided?

“I’ll have to come back tomorrow and get that USB from you.” Tipping back the rest of his beer, Grady rose from the island. “Press sniffing around here all the time, so we can’t be too careful. Oh, and listen to the whole thing from start to finish. No jumping around. The album has a great narrative through-line. One of the best, if you ask me.” He grinned and gave a wave as he let himself out.

I wondered when the press would fade away. If she never came back, would they lose interest, or would Victoria always be dogged by people hoping to catch a taste of Mia?

I turned the USB over and over. Headphones. I needed headphones. Would she have left some here? After going to the master bedroom in the basement, I searched the closet and all the drawers. I’d almost given up when a stray pair of bright-pink earbuds peeked out from the cupboard in the en suite. Sweet relief.

Snatching them from the wooden surface, I raced up the stairs. With the video baby monitor perched in front of me, I slipped the USB into the computer and wedged the earbuds in tight enough to block out everything else. If Victoria cried, I could see her on the monitor.

Before I pressed play, I stared at the track list. Eighteen in total. None of them were named. I had no idea what waited for me on the other side of this album. Would it be a clear sign she was working her way back,or was she ready to let me go instead? There was no note with the USB stick, so it was up to me to take what I knew about her, what I’d learned about writing songs, and to come up with the right answer. My heart hammered.

What would it be?

With a deep breath, I tapped the mouse to play the first song.

Chapter Thirty-One

Mia

Ihad written him an album. Well, that wasn’t completely true. The first few songs were more about my childhood, or lack of it, and my relationship with my mother. Grady had called the album an awakening. By the end, the songs were filled with so much hope and love and joy, I’d wanted to scream the lyrics from the rooftops. I’d never felt so sure of what I wanted and needed.

When I’d asked Grady to deliver the files to Tyler, I’d considered penning another epic letter to accompany it. But I didn’t think I could have expressed myself more clearly than I had in my music. I laid my true self bare to him, and when the album released in a couple of months, I’d be exposed to the world.

Maybe not wise. People were mean. Honesty wasn’t easy. For the first time, my fans would be getting me unfiltered, without my mother leaning over my shoulder whispering,what will people think?as though other peoples’ opinions were the most important to consider. I’d let the weight of those words sink my conviction, my gut feeling about what was right, and those words had almost cost me Tyler and Victoria.

Tyler.

The beauty of Tyler, as I’d come to realize the last few months without him, was his ability to adapt. From the minute I’d walked into his shopalmost a year ago, he’d steered through every intersection and curve in my mood as though he’d been given a map to my soul. The video he posted after listening to the album only solidified my feelings, not that I needed confirmation.

My love for him was a steel rod through my body, unbreakable, unbendable, propping me up during my toughest moments. The power of unconditional love had surprised me. Even though we hadn’t been together, at every turn, I’d known he was out in the world cheering for me. I never doubted his commitment, even as I’d been trying to figure out if I was capable of returning it.

In the video he posted about the album, he’d taken notes—notes on my songs—and he understood all the nuances, things I never thought anyone would get, about the songs, about me. As much as writing the lyrics had been cathartic, listening to him pull them apart and realizing hesaw me and still loved mewas a gift I never anticipated. At the end of his video, he held Victoria up to his camera and said they’d be waiting when I was ready to come home.

Home.

I owned a lot of houses, but I’d never had a home until him, untilthem. Each therapy session had gotten me closer and closer to feeling capable, worthy, of what he was offering. Five months of tearing myself apart and stitching myself together had led me here—to Little Falls, to my family.

Pasha nudged my arm from the driver’s seat, and I tore my gaze from the snowy front door of Tyler’s store. I hadn’t told Tyler I was coming, but it was four days before Christmas, and today was his birthday.

“Ready?” Pasha asked, his accent still thick, but his English had improved tenfold with all of the time he’d spent as my favorite bodyguard. Someday, I hoped I’d see him happy, instead of brooding and stoic.

“There’s no such thing as perfect,” I reminded myself as I twisted the rings on my fingers. Whenever I got anxious in therapy about being a good partner to Tyler or a good parent to Victoria, those words were my lifeline. “If I screw up, I own it, and we figure out how to move forward.”

Beside me, Pasha said nothing.Own it. Laura had forgotten that step every time she’d screwed up. Who was to blame? Anyone and everyone but her.

We’d met in one therapy session to disastrous results. Among other things, my mother had said I needed to grow a thicker skin, and if I thought I was the only woman who’d ever been wronged by a man, Laura could fill me in on just how bad it could be. My head had spun at the lunacy, the self-centered importance. The trial, the women’s march, my support group, even some of the songs on the album were rooted in too many women having gone through the things I had suffered.

I knew I wasn’t special, but it had taken that moment to make me realize our mother-daughter bond lived in the dirt of conflict and competition. Nothing could grow there. That dirt was filled with toxins. Before Tyler, before therapy, deep down I would have thought my mother knew best, and I’d have grown a thicker skin, sealed my emotions tighter. Not anymore.

I didn’t want to wilt. I wanted to bloom.

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